I know, you're wondering "What job?" I've been keeping quiet on this because I didn't want to jinx myself. But my supervisor resigned recently and I applied for his position, and they offered me the job on Friday. This is a significant promotion for me, so you’ll excuse me while I shout WOOHOOOOO!

But now you ask, "Friday?? Today is Monday! Why has it taken you so long to share this exciting news?"

All I can say, Internet, is that life comes before blogging. And it just so happens that we had already secured a babysitter for Friday night so Pa and I could go see The Reverend Horton Heat at The Blue Note. That made it easy for us to celebrate, and I was prepared to get wild on the dance floor. Alas, this was my first time seeing The Reverend, and I had no idea what was in store for me. Meanwhile, my mother is reading this and wondering when I started going to church on Friday nights (or at all, for that matter) and what is this Blue Note Church? Click the links, mom, and keep praying for your heathen daughter;)

So there I was on a Friday night dressed in a baseball shirt, a micro mini skirt and combat boots, ready to get wild. The dance floor was standing room only, and looking around I recognized some of my stepdaughter's friends, including one of Hercules' Adventure Club instructors. This might make some people feel old, but not me. It just affirms my youthful spirit! The energy in the room was high, and I was eager to get my groove on. While we waited, Pa asked me how I felt about moshing.

"Moshing? Do people mosh to rockabilly?"

Ah, famous last words.

Sure enough, they do mosh to rockabilly! Or rather, punkabilly. Now, I used to date guys that would wear their moshpit-blackened eyes like badges of honor, but I never did get the whole appeal of moshing. It's like a barroom brawl without the chairs and it doesn’t matter who you’re mad at, you just throw punches wildly. It's just one big, happy, angry mob of flailing fists and flinging bodies and I guess some people think that's fun. I am not one of those people.

I am, however, a good sport. While I tried my best to dance without elbowing everyone around me, the moshing kids frequently moshed in my direction. I learned to simply hold up my hands and shove them back into the moshing mayhem. They didn't seem to mind, so I kept shoving whenever a body flung itself in my direction. I had a relatively safe spot on the perimeter of the mosh pit, so aside from the occasional runaway mosher, I managed to avoid getting punched, elbowed, or trampled. Which is more than I can say for the moshers themselves. I did, however, get a lot of beer spilled on me. Which was okay, because everyone on the dance floor was inevitably baptized in yeasty brews, so our stench was just another sign of our fellowship. We came! We moshed! We stink!

Despite the adventures we were having at the edge of the moshpit, the confines of the dance floor could only contain so much activity, and it was not at all conducive to actual dancing. It was mosh or be crushed, there was no middle ground. We made our way upstairs and watched the show from the balcony for a while so we could gawk at all those crazy kids from a safe distance. Finally, the music and the moshing just seemed kind of repetitive, so we left and that was the end of our celebration. The Reverend puts on a great show, don't get me wrong. But my youthful spirit can only endure so much youthful madness. And moshing is madness, however entertaining it may be for the bystanders.